


nothing of the heart remains

by Solanaceae



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 07:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17699897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/pseuds/Solanaceae
Summary: After Beren's death, Luthien comes to Thuringwethil with an offer.





	nothing of the heart remains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swilmarillion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/gifts).



Over and over again, she dreamt of the light, piercing her in a thousand places until her skin shone like the night sky pricked with stars. Wingless and naked and alone in the dark, she caught the sharp scent of white flowers springing up in the deep blue of the forest. 

A name rose to her lips, burning her throat.

In the distance, a pale light, shining brighter even as it grew smaller, drawing further away. It was not moving; she was falling into the void below it. She closed her eyes and still saw the light’s pulsing red afterimage on the back of her eyelids, felt the whipping of the wind as she fell endlessly, fear clawing at her throat even with the knowledge that she would jerk awake inches from striking the bare stone below.

***

And again, a memory so uncertain she did not know if it was a dream or truth: the springtime coolness of Lúthien’s mouth against her own, the demand in her voice, the relentless tenderness of her hands stripping Thuringwethil’s wings from her body. 

Lúthien’s song, piercing as starlight, a silver lance of pain. Thuringwethil’s own voice, broken and begging, but not begging for mercy. 

How Lúthien stripped every defense from her with little more than a touch and a melody, leaving Thuringwethil flightless in the shadows.

***

It was, after all of her dreams, a surprise to wake near midday to the whisper-soft sound of footfalls approaching her den through the patter of falling rain. 

Thuringwethil rose from her bed of furs, drawing her wolf-skin cloak around her otherwise naked body. Her back still ached from the long wounds where her wings had been severed from her, wounds that had closed over with tender new skin but that flared awake at the sound of those footfalls, as though they recognized their owner.

A shadow, fleet and nearly silent, that darted through the downpour into the shade of a tree near the den’s mouth. Thuringwethil’s lip curled with faint amusement.

“Come out, princess. There’s no need to hide,” she called.

A pause, and then Lúthien emerged from behind the tree. The elf was wrapped in a familiar skin of black leather, Thuringwethil’s own batfell draped over her shoulders, iron claws dragging against the soaked leaf litter. Under that, she wore a dress of dark blue, and her black hair, cut short around her ears, dripped with water. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled, long and mournful.

Thuringwethil leaned against the entrance to her den, formed by an outcropping of rock and crooked-growing tree that sheltered her from the rain, and crossed her arms. “Come to return my wings, have you?” she asked.”Pity, when they suit you so well.”

Lúthien’s hand tightened ever so slightly where it held the edge of the batfell. “Nay.”

“Then what? I have nothing more for you to steal.” If there was bitterness in those words, it was well-earned. 

“I come with an offer.” Lúthien tilted her head to the side, regarding Thuringwethil. “May I come inside?”

“Oh, asking for permission, this time?” She did not bother to disguise the venom that dripped from those words. “No. You may stay outside and drown, for all I care. Where is your mortal lover?” 

A flash of steel in the elf’s eyes, bitter and hard. “He is dead.”

“Only to be expected. Men are so terribly  _ fragile _ .”

A brief spasm of anger crossed Lúthien’s face, and Thuringwethil knew, logically, that Lúthien could kill her just as easily as look at her, that needling her like this was dangerous, but there was a burning resentment in her heart that meant she could not quite bring herself to care.

(And if there was part of her that thought of a dream of a memory of a kiss like starlight—it was a deeply hidden part of her.) 

“Thuringwethil,” Lúthien said, and Thuringwethil bit her tongue until she tasted iron to keep from shivering at the way her name sounded in Lúthien’s mouth. “I did not come here to quarrel. I came here because I have need of your help again.”

Thuringwethil raised an eyebrow and said nothing. For a long moment, there was only the gentle patter of rain against the forest floor.

“I am sorry,” Lúthien added at last. “For taking what was yours, and causing you pain. When I am finished with what I must do, I will return it all to you.”

“And what must you do?”

“Destroy Morgoth.” She said it so simply, voice no more grave than it had been throughout this conversation, that Thuringwethil almost wondered if she had misheard, or if Lúthien spoke in jest. But there was no trace of humor in the elf’s eyes.

“You’ve gone mad,” Thuringwethil said, voice flat. 

A smile curved Lúthien’s lips, cold and mirthless. “Perhaps.”

“And you plan to assail Morgoth all alone?”

Again, that light in her eyes, star-fell and deadly, that made Thuringwethil shiver. “Not alone.”

Thuringwethil barked out a laugh at that. “You cannot  _ truly _ believe that I will help you with such a hopeless quest.”

“Hopeless,” Lúthien mused. “That is what they said of our quest to get a Silmaril. And we succeeded at that.” Her eyes fixed on Thuringwethil’s. “But if you have any hope of receiving your wings again, you will help me.”

“And what hope do you have that you will succeed?”

“I have the power of Melian flowing in my veins, and I have this.” Lúthien withdrew her hand from under the batfell, and Thuringwethil flinched back at the scalding light that streamed between her fingers, illumination that caught the rain and turned it to a thousand falling sparks.

“Put that away,” she hissed, pulling her cloak of fur over her exposed skin, which burned where the spots of light struck it.

Lúthien tucked the Silmaril back into some hidden pocket, obscuring its light, and Thuringwethil let herself relax a little, breath coming fast.

“Even with that,” she said, once she had gotten herself under control. “The might of Morgoth is great.”

“But he is not invincible.” Lúthien stepped forward, reaching up to touch Thuringwethil’s face, strangely hesitant. Thuringwethil froze, stood still as a mountain as Lúthien’s cool, wet fingertips traced her cheek. “Help me, Thuringwethil. Please.”

Thuringwethil closed her eyes, mentally cursing her weak heart, which had twisted pleasantly at Lúthien’s  _ please _ . Opened them again to find Lúthien’s pale gray eyes fixed on hers, a hopeful light in them. 

She took a breath. The damp air was sharp with the scent of Lúthien, a scent of moonlit flowers gleaming in the dark woods. For a moment, the feeling of falling gripped her, like the ground had disappeared from beneath her feet. 

“Yes,” she said. “I will help you.”

***

In the end, a dream so sure it formed a future: Lúthien, standing in the wreckage of Morgoth’s throne, shards of iron at her feet and three gleaming lights in her hands. Thuringwethil’s wings melding back into her form, a feeling of wholeness sweeping over her as she flew down to join Lúthien.

The melody humming on Lúthien’s lips still as Thuringwethil kissed her, hands tangled in her hair, the ruin of their enemy strewn all around them. 


End file.
